


can't help it

by Anonymous



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Dominance, Filth, Finger Sucking, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mafia AU, Making Out, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Play, Too Much Spit, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24553930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: San pisses off the wrong/right man.
Relationships: Choi San/Jeong Yunho
Comments: 10
Kudos: 140
Collections: Anonymous





	can't help it

He is pinned, like the piece of sashimi stabbed unceremoniously with the end of a black chopstick. Like a rat beneath the white light of a laboratory.

Yunho eats the salmon, his expensive shoe on San’s chest.

San doesn’t squirm, as much as he’d like to. He just squints up at Yunho with this inscrutable expression, lips still and nostrils unflared, but pupils shiny with... what? The onset of tears? Anger?

If it’s inscrutable, it’s also intolerable, San guesses, because Yunho stomps on his sternum without much warning. It leaves his chest blooming with this dull, aching pain, a hard thud that shudders through him and makes him feel lower than low. Yunho’s got him feeling like a human headache.

Yunho puts the sashimi in his mouth. The slant of pinkish fish looks like a second tongue.

Despite the pain, despite the fear that’s slowly clawing little lanes of dread inside the pit of San’s stomach, he manages to choke out a question.

“Ever considered doing mukbangs?”

Yunho licks soy sauce off his bottom lip and hitches his eyebrows.

“ _Hm_?”

San wraps his hand around Yunho’s ankle, and the twitching sneer that flickers over the bigger man’s lips for a moment doesn’t go unnoticed. He thumbs over his pantleg for good measure, immobilizing him with annoyance the same way Yunho’s immobilized him with his foot.

“Y’know—you’re just making me watch you eat here. If you enjoy this kind of shit so much, might as well—”

Yunho leans over and slaps him across the face. It’s a stinging pain, dissimilar to the stomp on his chest. It’s more sharp, brutal. San files away these experiences of pain for later, these unique types of sensations, but he’s not sure why. Then the _god-like_ man leans back and laughs.

“A man can’t eat before he engages in a little torture?”

San doesn’t respond, cupping his face with his palm, as if to nurse the prickling pain. His eye is wet but still, like lotus pond water, and he manages to look at Yunho obstinately. That unwavering eye contact pisses Yunho off more; he likes the fear, the begging, the reactions, the sweat.

Of course, when San’s eyelid swells and a fat droplet of a tear streams down the side of his face, it’s all worth it. He presses his wrist to his crotch and sets aside his plate. The china clinks unfittingly delicately against the desk, echoing in the empty room.

San even feels like _breathing_ is impeding on the silence.

He hates it when the office is so empty.

Hates it more when it’s only Yunho around.

“You want to tell me why you hit one of my men?” Yunho says, goading and patronizing, his voice lilting high like he’s a school principal talking down to a child.

“How was I supposed to know he was one of yours? I’d never seen him before.”

“I’m sure your little pal Yeosang is in more than friendly terms with him. You’re telling me he didn’t tell you?”

“We’re not in the business of gossiping. Anyway, give me some credit,” San reaches up and strokes his ankle again, just to piss him off, “I’m getting him used to the new lifestyle. He threw the first punch.”

“And he comes back with a broken nose.”

San sits up on an elbow but it’s immediately kicked out from under him, and he flops back down on the densely packed carpet. More pain, albeit less impactful: the dull throb of his skull connecting with the floor. “Something tells me... You’re not all too concerned with the physical condition of your underlings. I think you could care less about how they’re faring medically. Forgive me if I come off as _presumptive_ , but I think you might be jumping on the chance to abuse your favorite, local detective. But that’s just my professional and deductive opinion.”

A polished shoe tip presses against the apex of San’s nose. He grits his teeth in anticipation, and sucks in a nervous little breath. With the proximity of the bottom of his shoe so close to his nostrils, it smells of street puddles and mud. “What a clever little P.I. you are. I’ll have to remember to hire you if I ever need a lawyer.”

San seals his eyes tight when Yunho lifts his foot, but something in Yunho softens. He doesn’t kick his nose in after all.

After his fear simmers down into something manageable, San cracks an eye open, and watches Yunho smile down at his grimace with a placid curl of his thin lips.

“Anything wrong?” San teases.

Yunho releases him from where he’s had him restrained and watches San’s chest expand as he takes thorough breaths.

“I don’t want to mess up that pretty face.”

San stares openly.

Before he can respond, he yelps out an embarrassingly high-pitched sound as the dress shoe lands between his legs. He feels sick with embarrassment, and claps a hand over his mouth, too late. Immediately—perhaps on instinct—he looks around for a camera planted anywhere in the office. But to record and preserve their own criminality would be stupid, and he realizes he’s looking for any distraction from the way that Yunho is currently grinding his foot down on San’s _dick_.

Always keeping his sexual degeneracy a poorly-veiled secret, San still assumed his coalition with their group being unofficial meant that Yunho would never prey on _him_.

“Look at that,” he sneers without much humor. Somewhere along the way he’s harvested a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, and the smoke floats pungent around his face. The grey of it makes him look flatter, duller. He seems miles away and all too close at once. “Seems like you’re capable of being cute despite your attitude.”

“Cute?” San croaks, incredulous.

“That’s right. I think a boy should be cute. And that’s what you are, aren’t you? Not a man—not with the way you act so belligerently. You’re _spoiled_.”

_As if you don’t behave on your emotions_ , San seethes silently.

He bends over the office chair, arms crossed over his knees, and blows the smoke into San’s burning face. “The least you could do is act a little more attractive, if you—”

Yunho’s words are cut off by the lob of spit that San directs at his face. It hits his cheekbone, and slips onto his suit jacket with a stringy, slow splat.

The second slap doesn’t hurt as much as the first. San doesn’t know why, but he files his descriptors away as such: _non-committal, affectionate_.

He feels like he’s going crazy.

“You already know what turns me on, don’t you?”

San can’t muster a response before he’s hauled up by his arm. His shoulder gives a concerning, crab-shell cracking noise, but the pain doesn’t register at all. Yunho is frighteningly strong, too much power packed into that lean and regal frame. San doesn’t want to fight him, either—for the sake of Yeosang and his man’s continued peace. For his agency’s serenity. For his own sanity.

So he doesn’t fight, but he’s not helping Yunho puppeteer him, his limbs all dead weight as he’s pulled onto Yunho’s lap, thighs draped over either side of his legs.

Yunho needles the pad of his thumb into the intersection of San’s jawbones until they creak open, his lips parting to show teeth that may be tinged pinkish with blood. But the color could be the neon sign outside advertising draft beers and Japanese food.

Everything is bathed in that sweet, blush color. The neon, the salmon, their mouths—

He swallows reflexively.

Digging three fingers past the threshold of his lips, Yunho yanks on his bottom row of teeth to prevent him from biting down, resting the pads against San’s wet tongue. He crawls his digits further and further back his open mouth until San produces a noisy, wet, choking sound.

San’s spit is warm and coating.

Yunho’s fingers taste of salt.

Then San feels it: Yunho’s aching erection grow and press into his thigh sickeningly. He shifts for confirmation and watches Yunho’s eyelids squint in pleasure, as if he’s just gotten a back rub.

“ _You’re_ _dithguthing_ ,” he slurs around the handful. Yunho rocks his hand back and forth, simulating a blowjob, and San’s eyes prickle with infuriated tears, gag-spit spilling down his chin, slicking his bottom lip into a cherry-skin pink.

Of course, it’s humiliating to be propped up and choked out and inspected, almost medically.

But that doesn’t stop it from getting San going. Not when Yunho starts purring his _name_ in a breathy, sultry tone. Not _Detective_ —San, _Sannie._

“Oh?” Yunho says, and watches San’s cheeks flush. “You like the nickname, detective?”

He pulls his fingers from San’s dripping mouth and leans close. His fan of breath that passes between winter-chapped lips smells of soy sauce and nicotine; not entirely unpleasant, since San consumes both of those things on the daily. Yunho opens his mouth just slightly and lets his tongue rest on the crown of his neat, white teeth; their perfection a product of laundered money.

One act of thoughtless impulse later and San’s attached himself to that tongue barely protruding from his mouth. His arms limply fall over Yunho’s broad shoulders and his hands are curled into fists behind Yunho’s hair. He white-knuckles against his own libido. He’s an idiot, he _knows_ he is, he knows he shouldn’t be so clingy and easy and _eager_. And although he could lie to himself and convince himself that he’s doing it solely for the sake of keeping the peace, he guesses there’s something more animalistic in him driving him.

Besides, he’s always been an honest man.

Yunho slides his tongue wetly over San’s bottom lip and relishes in the squishing, noisy sound that results, a small whimper that San tries very hard to keep at bay. Yunho tugs him close, an arm wrapped tightly around his middle, and he pushes up against San’s hard-on that’s now straining uncomfortably in his too-tight jeans.

They kiss for a while, San furious and Yunho smug, but their feelings don’t affect how pleasantly the long line of dripping spit between them leaks.

Of course, San’s the one to pull away, taking in humid breaths with his brows knitted. He slurps up some of the moistness off his bottom lip with his teeth. The resulting sound makes his next demand a lot less threatening.

“Let me go.”

Yunho’s hold only tightens and he stares up at him, onyx-shiny eyes too invasive. San searches the office for Yeosang’s desk. His laptop is open and there’s a sticker on it of a stylized teddy bear. Somehow, the image makes him soften, become more pliant.

“Eh, I think you need a lesson in shame, _Sannie_. You got too much of an ego.”

San squeezes his fists until his knuckles pop.

“This is already humiliating enough.”

“Eager there, weren’t you?”

Yunho unzips the teeth of San’s jeans with creeping slowness.

“Don’t deny yourself anymore. Thank me for doing you this favor.”

San centers his sight firmly on Yeosang’s desk as a hand reaches between the open zipper of his jeans and gropes at the bulge in his underwear. He keeps his lips parted, lets Yunho bite and lick into and play at his mouth. He’s not responsive enough to be intimate but not still enough to be uninvolved.

Working San’s jeans down over the tops of his thighs and yanking his briefs beneath the curved erection that’s leaking as much as his mouth, Yunho squeezes the base of his cock.

“It isn’t any worse than having your nose broken, is it?”

San’s tongue lolls out of his mouth as he tilts his head, a gesture that’s meant to be morbid, but which only makes Yunho’s dick pump out more precum. “The shame’s killing me.”

It’s an honest admission.

With his chin and his dick both held in Yunho’s grip, San feels good relinquishing all control. _I can’t help it, can I?_ The fact that he’s being coerced into this isn’t at all a comforting thought, but it’s a lot better than admitting he’s willing to make out with fucking Jeong Yunho and jut his aching erection into the calloused flesh of his palm.

“What a little whore you are,” Yunho sneers, all cold and _hot_ , disgust ticking his voice up. San’s face crawls with a blush that’s hidden in the light of the office. His dick twitches needy in Yunho’s big hand and San is close to begging, can feel desire bury itself in the pit of his chest.

“Please...”

Yunho’s hand works faster, pumps his aching cock, and he drawls, “Go on.”

That voice is low and cruel, and his breath is close, and San grips his shoulders, digging his nails into the medical-white suit jacket, scraping cloth.

“ _Nn..._ ”

When San fails to beg, Yunho’s hand tightens around his balls. He goes red and puts the back of his forearm to his face, but that’s yanked down as fast as it comes up. Yunho doesn’t want him hiding against his desires. He wants San spread open and pathetic and crying. He’s always despised his resilience, his stubbornness, keeping him from failing.

“Please let me cum.”

Yunho holds his cock tighter, too rough. San flinches and pants, his hair dampening with sweat, his jacket feeling too heavy on his arms. It’s nearly claustrophobic, the way he’s boxed in and restrained.

“You can do better than that,” he snickers, and sticks a finger in his mouth again. For a moment, San honest-to-god sucks it like it’s a dick, going down on it with his brows hitched, before he pops off quickly.

“Please—Yunho, _please..._ I want to cum, please let me. I can’t take it, my cock—I _need_ to. _Boss_ , please.”

It’s more than Yunho ever expected to get out of the detective, so he loosens his hold and gives him two, three quick strokes of his cock, and watches San shoot out ropes of thick cum over his own suit jacket. His body twitches and he jerks close. Yunho can feel his heart thudding, can almost see the cloth of his t-shirt shift with his pulse.

Then he lays boneless on top of him.

“You fucking pig,” Yunho snarls, pushing him off of his lap and watching him fall on his side, propped up by a hand that laps up carpet burn. “Making a mess of me.”

“You _made_ me.”

“I didn’t ask for a complaint. Clean me up.”

San stares at him.

“Now. Or I’ll break your fucking nose like I wanted to.”

San supposes it could be worse. If this is the end of it, if he can lap up his own cum—nothing he’s unfamiliar with, embarrassingly enough—then he can go back home and utilize his bottle of mouthwash as quickly as humanly possible.

Crawling up between his sprawled legs, he inhales the aroma of his musk, his own cum, the cigarette still burning lazily in an ashtray. Yunho picks it up and nurses it as San’s tongue peeks out from between his lips and he collects the cum from his suit jacket. He feels like it’s a stupid, futile exercise: replacing the unhygienic semen with equally unhygienic saliva, but he supposes it’s a powerplay, and nothing more.

The taste isn’t bad. Mild, salty. It’s the taste of himself. Call him a narcissist.

He sits back on his haunches once he thinks he’s sufficiently cleaned the jacket, and he shows off the wet jizz collected on his tongue, lets Yunho inspect the milky fluid shiny with spit, before he swallows it.

Yunho tilts his head and exhales a breath of smoke from his nostrils. He sits, regal and coiled in his chair, much like a boss.

“That’s good.”

San stands up to leave, his face stained the color of the neon sign outside, but he’s stopped once again by the sound of a zipper.

He looks over, and Yunho hefts his dick out. It’s soft and smeared with his own semen. San can’t help but feel a burst of pride for making someone as domineering and controlling as Yunho, cum in his pants like a teenager.

That pride fizzles into shame when Yunho tips his head back and gives his filthy cock a small shake, as if he’s beckoning a _dog_ over with a treat.

“Clean it up.”


End file.
